


Intercept

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Burden of proof, Gen, Happy Ending, I promise, Interrogation, Trigger warning for case involving child predator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 06:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11396988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Lestrade's at his wits end on a kidnapping case, and even Sherlock isn't being much help.





	Intercept

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for a case involving a child predator.

“You mean you can’t give me _anything_ on him?” demanded Greg.

“I already told you he took her.” Sherlock waved dismissively to the man on the other side of the glass, and then perched himself on the console, absorbed in something apparently essential on his phone. Probably harassing John, who’d apparently chosen to go out on a date tonight rather than helping Greg wrangle Sherlock on a case.

Greg believed Sherlock was right about Hoffman, God help him, he really did. He’d probably believe Sherlock was right if he said the sky was green, because probably, somehow, he would be. Even if he wouldn’t explain why until later. If at all.

So when Sherlock had pointed out Luke Hoffman, apparently at random, and named him as the kidnapper of a six year old girl, despite having minimal connection to her and a good alibi at the time of her disappearance, Greg believed him. Alibis could be faked, pervs didn’t always spend much time grooming a victim; Sherlock Holmes may not explain how he'd made it to a conclusion, but somewhere, somehow, there was a connection. Still, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the one who had to prove it.

“I need _more_ than that, Sherlock, we’ve talked about this! This isn’t just some puzzle to solve: crash through the crime scene, point the finger, and the fun bit’s over. We need a location on the girl. Or we need legal proof that he was involved so we can use the leverage to _find her_.”

“I told you: his belt. That’s all the proof you need.  It’s _obvious_ from the setting.”

“It’s not obvious to a _judge_!”

Sherlock scoffed. “Judges are idiots.”

“According to you, everyone’s an idiot!” hissed Greg.

“Let him go, then, if you don't believe me,” Sherlock shrugged without raising his eyes from where he was playing with his phone, lounging insouciantly on edge of the console.

Sometimes Greg could see _exactly_ where Donovan was coming from about him. Sherlock had got so much better recently, but in a case like this—a child predator and without John to keep pulling and pushing him into line—he still set everyone's teeth on edge, and for good reason.

Still, Greg was _desperate_.

“Look, I believe you, I do, but I don’t have enough to charge him, legally,” explained Greg. “Not even close. It’s a serious crime, perhaps I can convince the higher ups to let me hold him longer, but the setting of his belt is not going to do the job. You have to give me something more! At best little Amelia’s locked up somewhere and terrified out of her wits right now, but she’ll be far worse if we let _him_ get to her!”

“She’ll be far worse if you keep holding him,” disagreed Sherlock. “Remember the way he’s been checking his watch? She’s got limited time; depending on how long he spends here, he’s not sure there’d be any point going back for her at all. He couldn’t have had long to stash her somewhere before he had to get back at the party being noticed. She’s tied up, probably: no food or water, maybe not much air. And he’s not about to give you anything on where she might be, not when it would torpedo his own case. Best thing you can do for her at this point is to let him go.”

Greg made a hopeless sound through his teeth, tore his eyes off Sherlock’s lanky sprawl and turned his glare at the far-too-clever predator, still sitting in his chair, chin tucked into his chest and smirking to himself.

He’d refused a lawyer. He hadn’t needed one.

“He had to have set up the whole thing beforehand,” snarled Greg. “Thought out the alibi, made sure to be noticed at the party before and after. Smug bastard. You think we’d have any chance of keeping a tail on him? You know as well as I do that following someone isn’t like in the movies, Sherlock; there’s only so far you can tail someone determined to lose you, at least without being noticed. If we let him go, we'll lose him in the first crowd, and then we'll have lost _her_ too!”

“Then keep him, if you think it gives you a chance at him,” said Sherlock again, carelessly. He’d been like that all evening, all through sitting in on the interview with Hoffman, playing on his phone as though a little girl's life wasn't hanging in the balance. He finally looked up from his phone, giving Greg a tolerant look. “You may find useful forensics on the body if you can keep him from shifting her until after someone notices the smell, but a deal with the devil’s your only option if you actually want a chance to keep her alive. Perhaps you can follow him to her, if he’s more of an idiot than I think he is, but even if not, she’ll have a few more days while he—”

“That is _not_ an option!” snarled Greg, thumping a fist on the console beside Sherlock and, as he did so, noticed the faint red light on the console which had been partially obscured by the leg of Sherlock’s trousers where he was sitting.

“Is that…” Greg breathed. “The intercom light? Fucking _hell_ , Sherlock. Get off the bloody console, _now_.”

Sherlock stood up from his perch and the red light abruptly winked off. In the interrogation room, Luke Hoffman was sniggering quietly to himself, still without lifting his chin or giving any other sign he'd been listening in.

“How long was it on?” groaned Greg, head in hands. “Did he hear _all_ of that?”

What a _disaster_. Whatever slim remaining chance there’d been for this girl had just gone up in smoke. Sherlock wasn’t even supposed to be here; no civilians were, and for just this sort of reason. Not that Greg shouldn’t have noticed where Sherlock was sitting and moved him off, but Sherlock always treated rooms as though chairs were for lesser mortals.

Oh, God. How was he going to explain this to Amelia’s parents?

Sherlock’s mouth was curled in a smile. “I’m quite sure he did hear it,” he said. “You’ll need to set a squad car on him, of course, he’ll be expecting that, and a couple of plain-clothes constables he can think he's lost.  But once he's ditched them, I suggest you send them on out to pick up dinner for everyone here. I suspect you’ll all be working late tonight.”

He turned his mobile around to face Greg, who took it on reflex.

 _Got her_ , said the top message, dated five minutes previously. _Bradshaw Street, just past corner of Carlisle, opposite the chicken shop._

_Unhurt? NSY will want picture._

_Frightened, exhausted, but okay_.

Following that was a dark, poorly-focused selfie of John in high-vis, holding a wide-eyed girl on his hip, her hair mussed and her face tear-streaked, her head leaning onto his shoulder. It was Amelia.

 _Excellent_ , was Sherlock’s response. _Take her straight home to her parents, police can debrief her there later._

Greg felt almost dizzy with relief and emotional whiplash. 

“Don’t worry, you played your part admirably,” soothed Sherlock, as though that had been his primary concern.

"You made me think I was going to have to _let_ him...."

Greg couldn't finish the sentence, the idea was so horrifying.

Sherlock broke his accusatory glare to gaze at the man on the other side of the glass.

“He’s been planning to abandon her,” he said quietly. “He didn’t expect to be picked up straight from the party like that, without even a chance to move her. He certainly would have checked for and discovered if there’d been police presence mucking about in his hidey-hole this afternoon. Letting him go early would have made him even more suspicious—letting him go late would mean he'd never return to the scene. You might be lucky with forensics, but catching him at the scene is the only way to be sure to get him off the street. This little performance has him back feeling in charge again, one step ahead of the bumbling police; he'll risk going after her now. But see the parallel smudges on his sleeve? Right on the back, there, where he couldn’t see them when he freshened up. Obvious where he’d put her. There are only a handful of drain gates on the route between the party and her last known location—took John barely half an hour to find her once I’d narrowed it down.”

“You said John was out on a date!” protested Greg.

Sherlock made an incredulous sound behind his teeth. “He was. But a missing child down a drain? When I texted what I needed, I doubt he remembered his date long enough to pay the bill before he ran off. Doesn’t matter; she was all wrong for him anyway. Hadn’t worked out yet that he’s a different kind of doctor to the ones who bring in six figures.”

Sherlock took his phone back and glanced at the message trail on the screen.

“A better kind,” he said firmly, and slipped it back into his pocket. “Her loss. Now, do you have a couple of keen young constables who’ll make unimpeachable witnesses and whose faces he won’t know, who might just _happen_ to fancy chicken for dinner? It’s possible Hoffman’ll smell a rat in all this and stay clear anyway—but if you can muster up something above your usual level of incompetence when you let him loose for the evening, it’s just possible he’ll use the rope you give him to hang himself.”

He turned to look at Greg, eyebrows raised. “Assuming, of course, that would satisfy these incessant demands for proof you can take to a judge? Perhaps Amelia won’t even need to identify him at trial. Always for the best; a traumatised six year old does not a good witness make.”

“Yeah.” Greg shook his head, wondering if they might just be safer asking Sherlock to go back to the old ways, where he whirled in and straight back out again, leaving Scotland Yard struggling along behind, finding the proof to shore up the case themselves. One look at the smug peadophile in the interrogation room—who didn’t yet know he was about to find himself neck deep in a empty drain, surrounded by police—was enough to clarify matters. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think this'll do.”

Sometimes he forgot how far Sherlock had come, but he was a different kind of Consulting Detective now.

A better kind.

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP #3: Overheard (eavesdropping and its possible consequences)
> 
> Prompt in the end note because spoilers. :)


End file.
